


Drawn Into The Shallows

by scribble55178



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death References, Friendship, Gen, Humor, References to Suicide, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:36:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribble55178/pseuds/scribble55178
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Sherlock, and Lestrade have a laugh while comparing scars. That is, until some old wounds are reopened.</p>
<p>For a prompt: "John, Sherlock, and Lestrade comparing scars. Like that scene from <i>Jaws.</i>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn Into The Shallows

**Author's Note:**

> **Not S2 compliant.** This is set after The Empty House. Sherlock has been back in London for about a year, and John met and married Mary early on during The Great Hiatus.
> 
> For a prompt, "John, Sherlock, and Lestrade comparing scars. Like That Scene from Jaws." This turned into a bit of a tribute to _Jaws_ , with what I hope are a few seamlessly-integrated quotes from the movie, however you do not need to have seen the movie or read the book to read this.

 

 

 

“Don’t you worry about it, Lestrade, it won’t be permanent,” John says.  
  
He sits at the head of the kitchen table and leans to his left to look at the small cut at Lestrade’s hairline. He hears Sherlock, who’s in the middle of his manic post-case pacing, behind him in the sitting room. Eventually Sherlock wanders into the kitchen and sits down at John’s right, reluctantly grabbing one of the beers John keeps insisting he should have.  
  
The florescent light hanging above them casts a harsh glow, illuminating their faces in the late night dimness of the flat and reflecting off plates covered in remnants of takeaway and clusters of empty bottles scattered about the tabletop.  
  
Lestrade frowns in response to John’s casual reassurance about the wound on his head, courtesy of one of the suspects they had cornered in an alley earlier. He continues to dab moodily at the cut with a piece of antiseptic-soaked gauze.  
  
John chuckles at Lestrade’s bitter expression and asks,“You want to see something permanent?” His face flushed with leftover adrenaline and a few beers, John eagerly pushes his left sleeve up to reveal a thin, straight scar running along the top of his forearm just below his elbow. He twists his arm left to right so that both Lestrade and Sherlock can see.  
  
“Knife wound,” Sherlock announces without hesitation.  
  
John’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, as they often do when Sherlock correctly deduces something, and he nods energetically. “Yep. Compliments of some time spent working in A&E. Bloke was completely strung out. No idea where he was hiding the knife, just all of sudden he breaks loose and slices me. I’m pretty lucky I suppose. He could have stabbed me.”  
  
The scratch on his head suddenly forgotten, Lestrade flicks the bloodied gauze down onto the table, “I got that beat.” He slides his chair back slightly so he can hike his right foot up onto the table and pulls up his trouser leg. A zigzagged series of faint scars encircle the flesh just above his ankle. He looks up expectantly.  
  
Directly across from him, Sherlock’s face drops into puzzlement before lighting up with a look of glee which Lestrade would find disturbing on anyone else. Sherlock’s voice is colored with excitement, “Explain how you managed to get your leg caught in a bear trap when there are no bears anywhere near the UK.”  
  
“What?!” John squawks. “How did that happen?”  
  
Lestrade grins. “Neighbor of mine loves collecting all kinds of weird stuff and he’s got a bunch of these antique traps. Most of them don’t actually work worth a damn anymore, they’re just for show. But anyway, one day my kid’s over playing with the neighbor’s kid and I guess the two knuckleheads decide it would be really funny to set one of the traps up in the garden and see if they catch anything. Which they did.” He waves a hand dramatically over the crooked line of scars.  
  
John laughs and shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe that didn’t completely wreck your leg.”  
  
Lestrade straightens his trouser leg back out and pulls his chair up to the table. “Well like I said, the trap was old and the spring mechanism was a bit dodgy, so it could have been worse.” He takes a drink. “Well, ok then, Sherlock let’s have it. As many mental things as I’ve known you to do over the years you must have one that beats a bear trap.”  
  
John beams at Sherlock. “Yeah, come on humor us for once. Share in our tales of woe.”  
  
Sherlock lets out a bored huff. “You’ve already seen most of my scars, John.”  
  
John glances wearily at Lestrade in time to see one of his eyebrows shoot up suggestively.  
  
John blushes red. “It’s not like that! I’m his doctor for God’s sake!”  
  
Lestrade’s gaze slides back and forth between the other two men. “Of course.”  
  
Sherlock smirks and John sighs in exasperation. “Sherlock,” John starts as he pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’ve no idea why you always find it so amusing. You never do a thing to discourage the gossip about us.”  
  
Sherlock begins idly peeling the label off the bottle he’s holding. “I’m a very results-oriented person, John. Lost causes are not my area.”  
  
John snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway... back to the topic at hand.”  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen the scar on your shoulder and I already know I don’t have anything that remotely compares. Seems like you might be stacking the deck in your favor with this game.”  
  
John tosses him a heatless glare and pats the table urgently. “Ok. Ok. We’ll take the career-ending battlefield wound out of the running. Is that satisfactory?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes shift side to side, considering. “Nothing about this is satisfactory. But _fine_.”  
  
When Sherlock seems to be taking too long to decide where to start John pipes up impatiently, “You’ve got that one from that sniper shot on your arm.”  
  
Sherlock frowns peevishly and rolls up his white sleeve to reveal a fine scar running diagonally across the upper portion of his left arm. “It’s just a graze.”  
  
“Only you would complain about it not being worse. You’re lucky to even still be around to have a trophy of that night at all. Thank God Mycroft’s cronies showed up when they did.”  
  
Sherlock slumps in his chair and grumbles out a “Mmmmm” before taking a graceless swig of his drink.  
  
John pats Sherlock’s shoulder in a mock gesture of sympathy. “Alright then, we’ll honor your frankly debilitating sense of sibling rivalry and pass on that one.”  
  
Lestrade gestures towards the collection of chemistry equipment piled on the kitchen counter, “Well how about Frankenstein’s laboratory over there? Surely you’ve got some souvenirs from when you’ve, I don’t know, blown things up or something.”  
  
Sherlock’s expression sours even further. “I’ll have you know that I actually possess a profound understanding of chemistry. I’m not certain how people have come to the erroneous conclusion that I am some sort of bumbling mad scientist. I do not _‘blow things up_ ’.” John chuckles at the exaggerated ‘puh’ sound Sherlock tacks on the end of ‘up’.  
  
Sherlock turns contemplative. “I did, however, suffer through a particularly inept lab partner once.”  
  
Lestrade huffs. “God, poor sod.”  
  
Sherlock nods decisively. “It really was the most intoler– wait. Were you referring to me or my lab partner?”  
  
Lestrade just grins.  
  
Sherlock looks affronted. “I wasn’t the one who couldn’t conduct a simple experiment safely! He received the benefit of my expertise and I received this...”  
  
Sherlock raises his left hand and feels around for a spot behind his left ear, his fingers sifting through the curls there until he lifts a mass of them up and away and tilts his head towards the light so John and Lestrade can see what he has revealed. A five centimeter long patch of his scalp is marred with an angry red mark.  
  
Lestrade lets out an impressed whistle.  
  
John reaches out automatically to examine the scar and says, a bit awed, “Chemical burn. How have I never seen that before?”  
  
Sherlock lets his hair fall back into place and the blemish disappears under his dark locks. He shrugs dismissively. “I’ve never been injured there since we’ve known each other. And my ridiculous hair hides a multitude of sins.”  
  
John laughs. “Ok well I think that one counts. Alright then let’s see... my turn... my turn... hum.” He folds his left leg up to rest the heel of his foot on the seat of his chair and pulls up the leg of his jeans. A broad patch of skin shines lighter than the area around it. He waits for Sherlock’s impending analysis.  
  
“It’s an abrasion, not a laceration. It looks quite old. Childhood injury I would think.”  
  
John giggles briefly and drops his foot back to the floor. “So I’m ten years old and speeding way too fast down this bloody steep hill on this bike I had just stolen and–”  
  
John is interrupted as Lestrade aborts the sip he's taking to touch John’s arm, “You do know I’m a D.I. right?”  
  
John gives him an incredulous look. “I returned it! Eventually.”  
  
Lestrade feigns acceptance. “Oh, I see, well that’s ok then. No... wait... nope, that’s still illegal. So how is it that straight-as-an-arrow John Watson wound up stealing a bike at age ten?”  
  
Sherlock interjects, “I’m going to apply my considerable powers of deduction to that question and assume Harry had something to do with it.”  
  
John snaps his fingers and then whips the same hand towards Sherlock to point at him, his fingers forming a gun shape. “Brilliant,” he declares authoritatively, before continuing, “She was fifteen and had just broken up with her first boyfriend, yes I said boyfriend, and they had gotten into a massive row and she _might_ have implied that he was a factor in her realizing she was gay and I don’t think he took that very well. Anyway he wound up saying some fairly nasty things about her and I guess I felt he should pay for that somehow and my ten-year-old brain translated that into him needing to have his beloved bike stolen.”  
  
“You could have just decked the guy,” Lestrade offers.  
  
“He was five years older than me! And I hadn’t had my growth spurt yet–– _shut up_ , both of you. Anyway so I stole his bike and I was so panicked about not getting caught that I took off down this insanely steep hill and hit a bump in the road at a bad angle and that was all she wrote. The bike was fine though.”  
  
“Well that’s all that matters,” Lestrade says seriously.  
  
“Oh sod off,” John grumbles.  
  
Lestrade smiles and raises his drink. “Alright, alright, sorry. Here. Drink to your leg.”  
  
John brightens and raises his bottle in response. “I’ll drink to _your_ leg.”  
  
“OK so we drink to our legs!” Lestrade says cheerfully as he clinks his drink against John’s. “So, my turn again.” He thinks for a moment, then shrugs out of his suit jacket, throwing it backwards to drape on the back of his chair. He pulls the left side of his shirt out of the front of his trousers and lifts it up. There’s a circular cluster of small jagged scars on the lower left side of his abdomen.  
  
John grimaces. “That doesn’t look like it was very pleasant.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips tighten in concentration for a moment. “There’s a pattern, but it’s quite irregular. Whatever caused it was damaged in some way. Ah! I’d say–”  
  
Having seen his fair share of fight wounds and knowing a bit about Lestrade’s boisterous past, John suddenly gets a bolt of inspiration and taps his beer bottle excitedly, his blunt fingernail pinging on the glass. “A broken bottle?”  
  
Lestrade’s eyes snap towards him. “Yep!”  
  
Sherlock’s face deflates into a pout and he eyes his drink accusingly before sitting the bottle down with disgust, as though the three sips of alcohol he’s consumed have slowed his thinking process to an unacceptable level.  
  
Lestrade snickers at him, then explains, “Ages ago I was in a pub with some mates of mine and I might have gotten a wee bit sloshed and wound up punching a guy.”  
  
“You do know you’re a D.I. right?” John teases.  
  
Lestrade grins wolfishly. “Not at the time.”  
  
“Oh, well that’s ok then. No... wait... nope, that’s still illegal,” John mocks.  
  
“I was defending a lady’s honor!” Lestrade cries indignantly.  
  
John nods. “Oh, I see. Lestrade the Gallant.”  
  
“And they say chivalry is dead,” Sherlock jeers.  
  
Lestrade’s expression morphs into a portrait of earnestness. “I can’t turn my back on a damsel in distress.”  
  
John leans back in his chair. “And you weren’t just on the pull of course.”  
  
Lestrade shrugs. “I can do two things at once.”   
  
Sherlock nods towards the scar in question on Lestrade’s abdomen. “The evidence is to the contrary.”  
  
Lestrade drops his shirt back down as he tilts his head to the side sharply and sighs dramatically. “ _Anyway_ , so this bloke was saying some rather crude things to this lovely girl at the bar and she was getting a bit upset so I stepped in and told him to back off but he wouldn’t and we exchanged some choice words and then I punched him. And he was so pissed out of his mind that he decided to smash a bottle on the bar and try to gut me with it. Luckily I think he was seeing three of me at the time and his aim was a little wonky.” He messily tucks his shirt back into his trousers. “Alright, Sherlock back to you.”  
  
Sherlock seems to be systematically prioritizing possibilities in his mind when John, increasingly restless, tries to prod him along again. “You didn’t get one while you were in Tibet?” John asks with a mischievous glint in his eye, and goes back to drinking his beer.  
  
Sherlock shoots him a chastising look, but then can’t restrain a smug smile that creeps up on his face.  
  
Lestrade looks baffled. “Huh? I never knew you’d been to Tibet. When was this?”  
  
Sherlock rests his elbows on the surface of the table and steeples his fingers. “Three years ago. Give or take.”  
  
“Oh. Oh. While you were... I see,” Lestrade says as he scratches lightly around the healing cut on his forehead. His hand stills suddenly. “Tibet huh?”  
  
Sherlock nods. “Yes. Tibet.”  
  
Lestrade’s mouth twists. “Three years ago.”  
  
Sherlock looks towards the ceiling, squints, then tips his head side to side. “Give or take.”  
  
Lestrade’s eyes narrow. “Wasn’t that around the time that crazy bloke was all over the news for destroying a bio-weapons lab? An _illegal_ bio-weapons lab? The kind of bio-weapons lab James Moriarty might have been pretty keen on having? A bio-weapons lab... in Tibet?”  
  
Sherlock stretches. “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t keeping up on current events at the time. I was rather busy.”  
  
“So you don’t remember that daft bastard called Sigerson that no one ever managed to get a picture of, let alone catch?”  
  
Sherlock looks insulted. “Daft?!”  
  
John chokes on his beer.  
  
Lestrade shakes his head and forces his face into some semblance of disinterest. “Right. Ok. I’m going to just pretend the last minute of this conversation never happened.”  
  
Sherlock straightens up and leans back in his seat again as he clears his throat. “That’s probably for the best. So... back to this inane game.” He picks up the fork resting on his half-empty plate of takeaway and pushes some food around lazily as he thinks. “Ah!” he says, and toes off his right shoe, peels off his black sock, and somehow manages to prop his heel up on the edge of the table in the most dignified manner possible, displaying the bottom of his foot. There is a long pale line etched across it.  
  
Lestrade doesn’t even try. John only frowns and complains, “That could be anything.”  
  
Sherlock grins triumphantly and quickly squeezes his foot back into his sock and shoe, smoothing out his trousers after he’s done. “I was eleven and we were on holiday in France when Mycroft got it into his fat head that he needed to take me out on a lake in an alarmingly small rowboat and, well... let’s just say that Mycroft is only _half_ the man he used to be and we capsized. Jagged rocks on the lake bottom, flailing whale of a brother, even you two can deduce the rest.”  
  
John and Lestrade erupt into a chorus of unmanly giggles which grow so infectious that Sherlock can’t resist joining them. He then calms himself enough to add, “I told him we were going to need a bigger boat. Even that oppressive busybody can’t defy the laws of physics.”  
  
John and Lestrade let out renewed howls of laughter. John eventually settles himself down and starts glancing around his body trying to remember what other injuries he’s incurred over the years. His face lights up. “Ok! So I’m near Maiwand and–”  
  
Lestrade cuts him off, “Hey I thought we established no wounds from your army days.”  
  
John retorts, “I never said that! I said the one on my shoulder was out, not all of them.”  
  
Lestrade goads him amiably, “Well you can’t expect anything we’ve done” he gestures between himself and Sherlock, “to compare to living and working in a literal war zone.”  
  
John crosses his arms, and argues, “Well first of all, I’ve been standing right next to him for most of the things _he’s_ done,” he hooks a thumb towards Sherlock, “and believe me I was safer in Afghanistan most days comparatively. And second of all, you’re a cop! Not exactly the safest occupation.”  
  
“Yeah but, John, a _war zone_. I’ve seen some of the damn crazy risks you take running around after Holmes over there, so I can only imagine what you were like as a soldier. You’re certifiable. You know that?”  
  
John grins wildly. “No, I’m not!”  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“No, I’m not!”  
  
“Yes, you are,” Lestrade says again, smiling.  
  
John barks out a laugh. “Yeah go ahead and smile, you son of a–”  
  
They both wince as a high-pitched screech silences them. They look over to see Sherlock scraping the tines of his fork across the surface of his plate. Once he has their attention he drops the fork down onto the plate with a clink and smirks at them, pleased with himself.  
  
John purses his lips briefly and leans back in his chair. “ _That_... was irritating.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes go wider. “ _Yes_. It was.”  
  
John glares at him and then tips his drink towards Lestrade. “OK then. Well since you’re suddenly putting all of these restrictions on me then I have to think for a minute, so go ahead,” _cough_ ”cheater.”  
  
Lestrade chuckles and leans back in his chair to think.  
  
John gives him about three seconds. “Well come on, Mr. War Wounds Don’t Count, quit stalling.”  
  
Lestrade’s smiling mouth goes a bit slack and his eyes get slightly unfocused as his mind scrabbles.  
  
John laughs at him. “Ah ha! I see. You just ran out of scars and you’re trying to disqualify the rest of mine!”  
  
“No I’m not! Give me a sec!”  
  
John starts to giggle again drunkenly when Lestrade jumps forward in his seat. “Wait a minute! I got it! I got the creme de la creme. Right here.” Lestrade unfastens the button in the middle of his shirt, pulls apart the fabric to reveal his bare sternum and taps the spot repeatedly with his finger. “Here. Right here is the winner.”  
  
Sherlock frowns, perplexed. John leans forward to get a closer look, but like Sherlock all he can see is unmarred skin, so he leans back, shakes his head and says “I don’t get it” before taking another drink.  
  
Lestrade watches both of them, his eyes gleeful and mouth agape, waiting for them to understand and finally gives up. “My ex-wife. She broke my heart!”  
  
Sherlock smirks crookedly as both Lestrade and John burst into an uncontrolled laughing fit, John once again choking on his beer. Lestrade slaps him hard on the back. “You ok, Doc?”  
  
John nods frantically and grins in between coughs until he regains the ability to breathe. He wipes merry tears out of his eyes, sighs loudly and says, winded, “Ah, that was fantastic. But you can’t expect to win that way when there’s a widower at the table.”  
  
Lestrade’s face slowly falls and his voice goes raspy. “Oh, Jesus, John, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”  
  
John smiles meekly and cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have to apologize for losing.” He then laughs to diffuse the palpable tension and it seems to ease Lestrade’s discomfort slightly.  
  
But Sherlock knows all too well which of John’s laughs are strained and which ones aren’t and this one definitely _is_. He can see that John is on the brink of one of the depressed stupors he sometimes falls into whenever he’s reminded too abruptly that Mary is gone, and since returning to London Sherlock has made it his mission to keep that from happening whenever possible. And he’s not about to stop now.  
  
So he does what he always does in this situation and attempts to wrench John free of his own misery by any means necessary. “The rules of this game are atrociously ambiguous. Had I known that metaphoric scars were eligible I could have ended this on my first turn.”  
  
Lestrade and John both look at Sherlock for a beat before Lestrade ventures bravely forward in the conversation. He taps his chest again to signify his ‘broken’ heart before buttoning his shirt. “What, did some lost love give you one here too?”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth distorts into a warped smile, “Hardly. No, mine’s up here.” He taps his temple, indicating his mind. “And my father gave it to me.”  
  
John and Lestrade glance at one another apprehensively.  
  
Sherlock can read what they’re thinking on their faces and he sighs. “I wasn’t abused. Father and I got along quite well actually. Up until he shot himself.”  
  
Lestrade’s mouth drops open, stunned.  
  
John’s jaw tenses, the only perceptible reaction revealed on his face. A sense of alertness vibrates deep inside his bones, his body attuning itself in anticipation of an unknown but fast-approaching danger. Sherlock is about to lead him somewhere they’ve never been together before, and even though John’s never more than a step behind, this is the first time he’s genuinely afraid to follow. But he _will_. He sits his drink down, deliberately, his hand steady, and asks quietly, “Why? Why did he do it? Do you think?”  
  
Sherlock shrugs. “Clinically depressed. His whole life, from what I understand. A great man and a good father, but...” he trails off, unsure how to proceed. “It wasn’t constant. Sometimes it would go away,” he says thoughtfully, then, haunted, “Sometimes it wouldn’t go away.”  
  
Lestrade breathes finally. “Jesus. How old were you?”  
  
“Eight, well, practically nine. It was right after New Year’s.”  
  
“Close to your birthday,” John notes, his voice even.  
  
“Poetically I suppose that makes it more significant but I should hardly think any of the other 364 days of the year would have been any more acceptable. The fact that I was present for it left a larger impression than the day on which it occurred.”  
  
“You saw it happen?!” Lestrade gasps, horrified.  
  
John’s head tilts down a little as his neck goes taut and he exhales loudly, but says nothing.  
  
Sherlock stiffens, hesitates, then nods. “I believe he felt it necessary to explain his motivations for it to someone beforehand.”  
  
Lestrade’s head starts to swim. “Christ.”  
  
“That’s not out of the ordinary," Sherlock justifies. "It’s common for people to attempt to confide in someone just before–”  
  
“Yeah but not a bloody nine-year-old kid!” Lestrade says, distressed.  
  
“I was a very mature nine-year-old.”  
  
“There’s no such thing,” Lestrade counters, suddenly drained and overwhelmed.  
  
Sherlock meets his gaze and turns Lestrade’s statement over in his mind meticulously before averting his eyes and reaching out to fidget with an empty bottle. “People used to ask me, and by people I mean the insipid therapists I was forced to see, if I wanted to talk about what I saw so I could accept it. As if describing his lifeless eyes and the carpet turning red accomplished anything of value. I didn’t need help accepting it. I had observed it.”  
  
Lestrade scowls. “I don’t think that’s what they meant by accepting–”  
  
There’s a rush of heat in Sherlock’s face and he says abruptly, “It was a very long time ago. I actually don’t remember it very well.”  
  
Lestrade relaxes back into his chair quietly, sensing he shouldn’t press Sherlock any further and hoping that Sherlock really _doesn’t_ remember it.  
  
But John _knows_. Knows that Sherlock remembers every last damn detail with frightening clarity.  
  
Lestrade blows out a breath. “Jesus, I’m really sorry, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock barely represses a flinch. This is why he doesn’t _do_ this sort of thing. He’s not afraid of much, but this, _this_ , is where his courage falters. If Sherlock Holmes has a phobia, this is it. Being pulled, _drawn_ , from the precise, comforting ground of reason into the disorienting, _suffocating_ current of _feeling_.  
  
Uncertain and braced, he looks at John, waiting for... something. Sherlock would regret the entire raw, unplanned confession were if not for the fact that John has a look in his eyes that says he’s now completely focused on his best friend’s dead father instead of his own dead wife. But still, Sherlock thinks, hearing anything that sounds like pity from John will only make everything worse after this night ends and the sun comes back up.  
  
Fortunately John, perpetually surprising John, developed an unearthly talent long ago for somehow knowing what Sherlock needs, right when he needs it, and he knows that while most people would welcome sympathetic words at a time like this, Sherlock is _not_ most people.  
  
So John simply says, “I think you won.”  
  
At first Sherlock is a complete blank. Then a rapid fire series of expressions ripple across his face which blend into what John translates as _‘Oh. I should have expected that. Well done, John!’._  
  
Lestrade is taken aback as the two men smile at one another, which at first seems morbid given the situation. Then he recognizes it as the same smile he saw them share when John pushed Sherlock out of the path of a bullet. The same smile which passed between them when Sherlock pulled John back and kept him from tumbling off the roof of a ten-story building. A smile that is real and unguarded and _grateful_.  
  
All three men start at the sound of a sharp knock at the kitchen door.  
  
“Woo hoo. You boys decent? Oh, carousing I see.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson walks in holding a plate piled high with warm scones.  
  
“You’re up late,” Sherlock states. The comment is directed at Mrs. Hudson but his eyes haven’t left John’s face.  
  
She waves a hand. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Which at my age, dears, shouldn’t be too far off.”  
  
The statement jars John and Sherlock out of their trances and they let out miserable, synchronized groans. John says, “I really wish you would stop saying things like that, Mrs. Hudson. Especially since it’s complete rubbish. You’re going to live forever.”  
  
She puts the plate of scones down in the middle of the table and absentmindedly gathers up two handfuls of empty bottles and deposits them in the recycling. “Is that your professional opinion, doctor?”  
  
“Yes. And I’m highly skilled.”  
  
“I’m suddenly very concerned for your patients. Sherlock, please explain the impossibility of my immortality to _Dr._ Watson.”  
  
“I happen to agree with his medical assessment in this instance.”  
  
“Boys...” she says fondly as she shakes her head, “...oh boys. All right, well it is pretty late. I better go lie down I suppose. Have to get my beauty sleep.”  
  
Lestrade reaches out and pats her shoulder as she walks past him. “You don’t need it Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
She smiles down at him slyly. “If I were a little younger you would be in trouble.”  
  
Lestrade winks at her. Sherlock glances at John and rolls his eyes.  
  
John puffs up his chest. “Mitts off our landlady, copper.”  
  
Lestrade lets out a laugh that turns into a yawn. “Well, gentlemen, I’m knackered. I’m going to walk this lovely lady downstairs and then go home and sleep until... what day is this?”  
  
John blinks blearily at the dregs of beer left in his bottle. “It’s Wednesday... eh it’s Tuesday.” He chuckles. “I think.”  
  
“Cripes, Doc, go to bed.”  
  
John responds with a casual salute.  
  
Lestrade stares at Sherlock a moment, then nods at him. “Goodnight, Sherlock. John.”  
  
“Goodnight,” they answer in unison.  
  
“Evening, boys.”  
  
“Evening, Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
John and Sherlock sit in silence long after hearing the downstairs door close with a click.  
  
John pulls a bite-sized chunk off one of the scones, crumbs sprinkling across the table. He chews it slowly, “So... bet you’re glad that’s over.”  
  
Sherlock studies him with cautious amusement. “Indeed. And to think... I used to hate _sharing_.”  
  
John’s eyes gleam, playful and knowing. “I can’t imagine why.”  
  
And Sherlock smiles.

 

 

 


End file.
